Dear ignorant sweatered man,

By DIG READER

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Waiting for a B Line train at midnight after work isn't my idea of fun, either, but was it necessary to ask me three times if we had missed the last one? When it finally comes, we get on, and you proceed to stand directly across from me. Minding my own business, I start to read my book. It is clear I do not want to converse.

"I like your glasses, do you like them? What brand are they?" you interrupt. "Lenscrafters," I say, shrug, and go back to reading. "Why are you wearing a raincoat? Did you think it was going to rain today?" you further pry. Who cares what I am wearing, and what's it to you? You are the one wearing a purple sweater two sizes too small. "You don't talk much, do you?"

TAKE THE HINT, BUDDY, I am clearly not interested in becoming friends with A) some random midnight rider and B) one who questions the clothes I wear, while sporting an ugly fucking sweater himself. Next time, skip the small talk or try managing to entertain yourself for a whole train ride. Try reading, I hear it's fun.

Send your anonymous gripes and grouses to letters@weeklydig.com, or to Dig Department of Gripes, 242 E. Berkeley St., 2nd Flr., Boston, MA 02118. Crybaby.